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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28738209">Adrift</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerbreadBaby/pseuds/GingerbreadBaby'>GingerbreadBaby</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1940s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Historical References, Medicine, References to Drugs, References to Illness, Romance, World War II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:15:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,370</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28738209</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerbreadBaby/pseuds/GingerbreadBaby</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>June, 1940</p><p>In the midst of oncoming war, your mother rather suddenly and mysteriously takes ill. Local physicians cannot hope to diagnose her, all coming away with different conclusions and plans for treatment. Desperate for some certainty, your father turns to his old friend, Carlisle Cullen, currently living in Washington, halfway across the world. Excitingly, Carlisle quickly replies, and crosses the “pond” to care for her himself. In a last minute attempt to buoy his spirits, he brings along his troubled nephew Edward, who quickly comes into conflict with you. Forced together by unlikely circumstances, can you learn to get along?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Edward Cullen/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. An Old Friend</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've always wanted to write a formal romance in the world of Twilight, and its only natural that my first endeavor is with Edward. Stay tuned, things are only just beginning!  As always, kudos and comments are encouraged, tell me what you think!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>June, 1940</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You adjusted the dial on the radio delicately, listening to the soft waves of static and honing in on the correct channel. Finally, triumphant, you settled back in your chair and stilled. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“-- just across the Channel, German forces are beginning to surround Paris. In a matter of hours, the city may fall to the--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Your father entered the room and scowled as he heard the broadcast, listening for just a moment, before abruptly switching off the device. “Stop listening to that drivel, Y/N,” he remarked, continuing to sort through the small stack of letters in his grasp, “you’re going to agitate your mother.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You gave him an incredulous look. “The Nazis are taking France, and you want me to ignore it? They’re practically at our doorstep!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This devolved into one of your usual arguments, with his insistence that France would not fall-- much less Britain, and that your focus should be on matters at home, not those abroad. You, naturally, replied that if the ministers spent as much time fighting as they did appeasing, the war would already be over.  Perhaps your voices were raised, or perhaps your mother had nothing to do but listen-- but as if on cue, her voice drifted down the stairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Stop fighting,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> her words were weak, soft, but you suspected she might have been attempting to shout. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your father gave you a sharp look, before turning his head towards the stairs. “The physician should be here any minute, dear,” he called back, “we were just passing the time.” His voice was gentle with her, tender and loving. You could remember just a few months ago when she too would engage in the debate, fiery and passionate in her own way… but confined as she was, she’d lost her vigor. Now, her comfort was all that mattered, even you recognized that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stood quietly for a moment, hearing the quiet creak of the furniture through the floorboards, presumably as your mother shifted in bed. “This physician,” you looked to your father, voice low enough not to carry, “is he any good?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your father grimaced. “He comes recommended by some,” he chose his words carefully, “but on such short notice-- we don’t have the luxury of being choosy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was right, regrettably. And as the doctor arrived, you were immediately skeptical. He was wearing a worn suit, thinning at the elbows, and cheap leather shoes. His medical kit, if you could call it that, was full of mismatched odds and ends. You watched him poke and prod at your mother, testing her reflexes, taking her temperature, asking her varied questions about her pain. His “examination” took maybe an hour in total, before he smiled, and nodded at your father, gesturing for him to step out into the hall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You twitched, but did not follow, holding your mother’s hand, and gently holding the damp cloth over her forehead. She was ill, irreconcilably so, rather suddenly. She could hardly get out of bed, wracked with pain, unable to get more than a few bites of food down. Her strength was gone, she was a shell of herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You could hear the hum of hushed conversation in the hall, ending with your father’s quiet thanks, and the sound of footfalls down the stairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your father re-entered the room, quietly taking his seat on the opposite side of your mother, and taking her other hand in his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You met his eyes. “Well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His smile was grim and his eyes lackluster. “He says it's apoplexy,” his thumb brushed over her knuckles, “minor, but enough to cause her current condition.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Disappointment leaked into your expression. “That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>five</span>
  </em>
  <span> different diagnoses,” you murmured, more to yourself, looking over at your mother’s fatigued expression. “We’re no closer to finding an answer.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was silent for a moment. “I have a friend,” he offered quietly, “in America. He’s a doctor, a good one,” his eyes fell to the bedsheets, almost resignedly, “it’s a long way, and an expensive trip… but if I could convince him--” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Carlise?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Your mother’s voice startled you both. Her eyes had opened just a crack, still bleary with exhaustion. “Carlisle Cullen?” Her words were hoarse, and slightly slurred, but comprehensible. “You’re inviting him to visit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps surprised by her sudden energy, your father was quick to answer. “If he’s willing to make the trip--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your mother turned her attention to you know. “If Carlisle Cullen is coming to visit, you need to clean the guest room,” gripped by passion for the first time in weeks, she continued, “I won’t let him stay in that awful hotel.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You and your father exchanged a glance. If the mere suggestion was enough to provoke this reaction, having him here could be even more beneficial than his diagnosis. “I’ll scrub every inch,” you promised, squeezing her hand, “and put out the good china.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Satisfied with this, she slowly drifted back to sleep, leaving the two of you to discuss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stepping out into the hall, and softly closing the door, you waited until you were out of earshot to speak again. “You should write to him,” you suggested, “explain her condition, the conflicting diagnoses… make him </span>
  <em>
    <span>understand.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>For once, your father didn’t fight your suggestion. He stepped into his study, and didn’t emerge until the letter was written. The post-marked note disappeared, and for some precious time, you were left in limbo. Until he sent word back, you would not know if Carlisle had received the letter, let alone agreed with the terms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You received a letter back not too long after that, neat cursive script on the envelope, and a carefully penned letter inside. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>By the time you receive this letter, I will already be well on my way-- but I hope the courtesy of this forewarning still conveys the same sentiment. Myself, and my nephew, Edward, will be making the journey east to you. Understandably, travel to your fair England has become something of a hassle-- as such, I cannot guarantee our expedience, but if all goes as intended, we shall arrive shortly. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The letter continued with more pleasantries and well-wishes, but the importance of the correspondence was already well-established for you. Doctor Cullen was making the journey, he was coming to diagnose your mother, and he was already on his way. Whatever disappointments the last physicians had brought, you allowed yourself a smidgen of hope, a quiet prayer that your father’s faith in Carlisle was well-founded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>True to his word, Carlisle did arrive shortly after his letter, pulling up on the curb in a slender taxicab, emerging from the passenger seat in a clean, pressed suit-- no indication of the arduous travel he’d endured. He grabbed his own suitcase, well-made leather, and pulled his cap down tighter against the rain. He appeared to say something to the driver, and then closed the passenger door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another figure slowly emerged from the backseat, his own jacket held over one shoulder, pulling his own bag with him, and shielding his eyes from the rain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You watched from between the curtains conspicuously, the well-dressed pair begin a hurried pace to get out of the rain, appearing to quietly converse. You were able to make out their features more distinctly as they approached the house. Carlisle was a blond, you could see the golden tufts peek out from below his cap. He was well-dressed, well-groomed, and quite handsome. It was hard to imagine your father ever having occasion to meet such a refined gentleman, but you pushed aside your disbelief for now. His nephew, Edward as you recall, was dressed more casually, but still dignified in his appearance. His suit jacket was now draped over his suitcase to protect the leather, stark black suspenders marking clear lines of definition over his cream colored shirt. He was without a tie, hair swept out of his eyes, and his </span>
  <em>
    <span>eyes!</span>
  </em>
  <span> You looked between the two of them now, surprised. Both had the most remarkable amber eyes, practically </span>
  <em>
    <span>golden</span>
  </em>
  <span> if you could trust your sight. They didn’t share much else in common as far as appearance, but their eyes were exactly alike. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You were surprised to find those eyes suddenly fixed on you, Edward’s face turned ever-so-slightly in your direction, peering through those same curtains, and examining you in return. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a start, you stepped back from the window, heart suddenly in your throat. So, Edward was handsome too. That was another thing they had in common at least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your father’s footfalls came down the stairs, heavy as a bull, barely sparing a glance in your direction. “They’re here?” He didn’t wait for an answer, crossing the few steps to the front door, and opening it, squinting out into the rain and seeing the figures for himself. “Carlisle! My God, you haven’t aged a day!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carlisle let out a soft chuckle, stepping forward to embrace his friend. “And this is your lovely home,” he remarked, stepping through the door, carefully shrugging off his wet coat and hanging it beside the door. “It’s a shame you’ve never invited me to visit before,” he said this in a playful way, looking at you now, still lingering in the foyer, “and you must be Y/N,” his smile was kind and warm, “I’ve only seen you in pictures, when you were small.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You felt a small brush of appreciation at the acknowledgement. “Thank you for making the journey, I know it was a hassle,” you smiled in return, “I am always gracious to meet a friend of my father’s-- and he speaks of no-one more highly than you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edward stepped through the threshold, and carefully closed the door behind him. He was not as cheery and friendly as his uncle, keeping a neutral expression as he looked around your home, before settling on you with curiosity… that managed to be almost threatening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You withdrew slightly, unnerved that his focus seemed to be on you entirely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carlisle drew your attention back however as he spoke. “Can I see the lady of the house? It’s been some time since we’ve spoken, I fear she’ll be quite cross with me if I don’t go to her immediately,” he said this with some levity, carefully laying down his suitcase, and looking to your father. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t hesitate. “Of course, she’ll be happy to see you,” he glanced to you now, “Y/N, will you take Doctor Cullen’s bags to the guest room?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would be glad to,” you agreed, amicably, walking towards the suitcase, when an ivory hand suddenly clasped the handle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edward hefted the second case with no strain. “I can handle them,” he murmured, almost too softly to hear. You were surprised to find a slight edge in his voice, and withdrew again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your father, seemingly oblivious to the tension, was quick to find another solution. “Perfect! Then, Y/N, will you show Mr. Cullen to the guest quarters?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You got the sense that Edward would rather wander the house on his own, but the smallest part of you was determined to push back against his hostile attitude. “Of course,” your voice was cool now, lacking the same gravitas you’d shared with his uncle. “Follow me, Mr. Cullen.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edward did not offer a rebuttal, merely sparing one last glance towards his uncle, before following you up the stairs. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>In the Twilight canon at this point, Alice and Jasper have not joined the Cullen clan, but the remaining Cullens are already in Forks, having signed the peace treaty with the Quileutes in 1936, four years before the beginning of this story. </p><p>As another brief note, I am drawing on real-world history, but I may fudge the timeline slightly to keep things in line with the plot. At this point (early June 1940) the Nazis are midway through the invasion of France, and Britain had been at war with Germany for nearly nine months. Italy has just declared war on Britain, and America has not entered the war yet. I may reference specific historical events throughout the story, and will try to provide more context in author's notes below.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Rules of Hospitality</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Edward could feel the stinging disapproval from Carlisle as he refused the girl. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Be polite. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The words were clear, and Carlisle didn’t have to glance over to know that Edward had read the thought. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We are guests here. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Carlisle smiled at something his friend had said, and started to move to the staircase. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We can hunt this evening when the house has gone to bed.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The mention of hunting added a drop to the feeling of hot hunger pooling in his belly. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> control, Carlisle would not have let him make the journey otherwise, but the difference between a </span>
  <em>
    <span>private</span>
  </em>
  <span> hotel room and a house full of humans was </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> clear by the smell in the air. Parsing through his distracted mind, Edward realized with mild alarm that you were speaking to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--we’ve made up the rooms at the furthest end of the hall, and laid out the linens. If you need anything--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was interesting, however, was that your focus seemed to be absent as well. Bracing himself, Edward focused on the contents of your thoughts, feeling a cold rush flood his system. Your thoughts ran like a current, one over the others, chaotic and unorganized-- reading them was like submerging himself in ice water-- it was overwhelming and numbing. He could read your mild suspicion, thankfully incomplete conclusions about his peculiar eyes, but more than anything else, a brief glimpse of hope that Carlisle would be able to diagnose and treat your mother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Very briefly reminded of </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>stake in all this, Edward tried to humble himself and be more… amenable. “You were born here?” He asked, his tone soft and polite. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You blinked as he interrupted you, but brushed the mild irritation away. “I was,” you answered, walking past your mother’s room and straining to overhear the quiet conversation inside, “I was nearly born in New York, but my father haggled for passage on a boat back to England just in time.” You couldn’t hear a word through the heavy door, and dejected, continued down the hallway. “My father told me you live in… Washington?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edward nodded curtly, also scanning the three distinct minds in the next room as you passed. “We recently moved to Forks, it’s a small town, close to Seattle,” he offered this with limited enthusiasm. The privacy was unmatched, but part of him still longed for the ease of city life. The temptation would be overwhelming, but perhaps if he managed on </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> trip, he could convince Carlisle to reconsider. He was… devoted to their lifestyle and diet, but part of him still longed to live through the life that had been taken from him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stopped in front of a door at the end of the hallway. The first guest room, for Carlisle, and you indicated this to Edward, leaving the doctor’s suitcase just inside the door, and then walking a few more paces to the second guest room, made up for the doctor’s nephew. “Well,” you turned to face him, allowing him to pass and examine his temporary quarters, “we eat at 5:30, promptly, there will be a place made for you and Dr. Cullen at the table.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edward internally cringed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That</span>
  </em>
  <span> was an aspect he hadn’t considered. It would be strange, noteworthy even, if he did not eat with your family. Carlisle could hide under the guise of examination and treatment, but Edward had no such disguise. “Thank you,” he offered coolly, careful not to forget himself again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You smiled tersely in return. “Until then, I’ll leave you to unpack and get settled.” You folded your hands, turning to make your leave. You could feel the hot bead of Edward’s gaze on your back, and forced yourself to stand straighter. You couldn’t let him intimidate you into silence. You were meant to be a hostess, in place of your mother, and the peculiarity of the guest did not affect your expected behavior. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the war on, and your mother’s continued medical expenses, your father did not have the means to hire an extensive staff to cook and clean. One of your former nannies, out of loyalty to your family, helped out where she could-- but she was in poor health, and often absent. So, with your father working, and your mother bedridden, the burden fell to you. You’d spent most of yesterday cleaning and preparing the guest rooms, and would spend most of tonight cooking and cleaning for supper. It was tedious and laborious, but occupying work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stopped briefly at the still closed door, straining to make out the words. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“-- and how long have you been suffering from this nausea?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“A few months, since… spring, I think.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Your mother’s voice was weak, but pushed out the words with force. Seeing an old friend had strengthened her condition, however subtly. The thought filled you with some pride, and you lifted your ear from the door. You could press your father for more information tonight, it was no use standing by the door and waiting for it to fall into your lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stepping back from the door, you softened your footfalls until you were out of earshot. You had work to do, naturally. The measly supplies you’d bought from the market would have to do for tonight, you supposed. Rationing had taken any creative freedom out of culinary pursuits, you had thin portions of meat, cheese, and bread-- slim for three people, let alone five. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You reached for the soiled apron, hung beside the larder and tied the strings around your waist. With a soft sigh, you set to work. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Britain in this period was coming out of the Great Depression, and many well-to-do families could no longer afford to hire domestic servants. Its during this period we see rise to the "housewife" archetype, where the woman of the house was expected to do the cooking and cleaning. It's also interesting (and I think worth mentioning) that many of the domestic servants would begin to work for the war effort, both during the first and second world wars-- which would eventually lead to the role of women in the work place. </p><p>Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, let me know!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Peculiar Gentleman</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You take supper with the Cullens, and make an attempt at a conversation with Doctor Cullen's brooding nephew.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Edward was waiting a few paces down the corridor, not so impolite as to stand outside the door while waiting for Carlisle to emerge. He could clearly hear the voices of those inside, and perhaps even the labored breathing of Mrs. Abberly-- but gave no indication of this, glancing out the window at the gloomy English countryside. </p><p>Rain was certainly not unfamiliar, and the weather was preferred in hiding their condition, but it didn’t make it more tolerable. Briefly, he was thankful to be indoors and dry-- before the creak of footsteps brought his attention back to the task at hand. </p><p>Mr. Abberly emerged first, expression troubled. Carlisle’s prognosis was hopeful, but uncertain, and his wife would need further observation and treatment. One thing was immediately clear-- there was no “cure” that Carlisle could provide. </p><p>Edward skimmed these thoughts, feeling a brief pang of sympathy for the man. Most likely, Carlisle could provide a diagnosis and some symptom management-- but in cases like this, these conditions did not disappear overnight. He offered the patriarch a reserved smile, stepping forward to receive his “uncle.” <br/><br/>Carlisle offered a quiet word of comfort to the ailing woman, before following his friend out into the hallway. “All things considered, she’s in good spirits,” he mused cheerily, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. </p><p>“Your visit’s done wonders for her,” Mr. Abberly offered, nodding in acknowledgement to Edward, “it’s good to see her looking forward to something again.” He busied himself for a moment in straightening his cravat, before glancing between the two men again. “It should be nearly time for supper,” he remarked, turning towards the stairs, “but I think I’ll indulge a pipe first. Carlisle? Edward? Care to join me?” </p><p>Carlisle’s smile was bright still, but he shook his head. “I’ve no appetite for it,” he offered regretfully, “Esme all but forbids it back home.” </p><p>It was worth noting, of course, that vampires received no pleasure from the indulgence and their sharpened senses made the odor nauseating, but Carlisle’s lie was born from the courtesy of gently refusing their host.  </p><p>Mr. Abberly let out a small bark of a laugh, extracting his small pipe from the inside of his jacket. “Perhaps she’s onto something!” He gave a short gesture of farewell and descended the stairs. “I’ll be in the parlor!” </p><p>Only when he was out of earshot did Carlisle turn and give Edward his undivided attention. “Have you settled in yet?” </p><p>“They’re expecting us to dine with them,” Edward returned, ignoring the question and careful to keep his voice low. “Tell me you have some plan to get us out of it,” they drifted away from Mrs. Abberly’s door, and towards their own. With no proper systems for digestion, mortal food meant immediate discomfort and later expulsion of whatever was consumed-- in addition to delaying their hunt and tempting their sense of control. </p><p>Carlisle sighed almost inaudibly. <em> At least for tonight, we need to make an effort. We can find excuses down the road, but for now, we need to keep up appearances. </em> Verbally, he offered some non-committal remark about the quality of the wallpaper, opening the door to his temporary dwelling and gesturing Edward inside. <em> We’ll hunt this evening, when they’ve gone to bed. We need to be careful.  </em></p><p>Irritation gnawed at Edward, and his expression was foul, closing the door behind him. </p><p>“Try to enjoy it,” Carlisle offered, “their daughter is around your age, and if she’s anything like her mother-- she’ll be kind and well-mannered.” </p><p>It was Carlisle’s nature to look on the bright side. His profession was one of heartache and disappointment, and his condition was one of eternal struggle and restraint. If he lost himself to hopelessness and despair-- there’d be nothing left to sustain him. His wife, his coven, even the mortals lucky enough to count him among their friends-- they kept him upright and “alive.” </p><p>It was one of the things Edward most envied of his creator. </p><p>“I will make an attempt,” he offered, trying to channel that same sentiment, “but I promise no results.” </p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>Dinner was a small, if celebratory, affair. You’d settled on a small shepherd's pie, concealing the slim quantity of fresh produce in a blanket of hearty preserves. You’d had just a few moments to freshen up before the meal, clearing the sweat from your brow and removing the apron-- before joining the men at the table. </p><p>By chance, or perhaps intention, your place had been set beside Edward’s. Pausing just in the doorway, your eyes shifted to your father with mild accusation. </p><p>He hid a small smile in the rim of his wine-glass, softly clearing his throat and standing to acknowledge your arrival. </p><p>The doctor was still consumed in conversation, his own glass abandoned, discussing the dismal weather in Washington and his medical practice within. He paused, however, to offer a smile in your direction, standing with noiseless grace. </p><p>Stiffly, Edward slowly rose from his seat, eyes still askance and unfocused. He pulled your chair out from the table, leaving just enough space for you to comfortably slip into the seat. No sooner had your knees brushed the edge of the chair before it shifted beneath you, now snug against the edge of the table with no hint of effort or exertion from the young Mr. Cullen, who silently retook his seat. </p><p>You restrained the small squeak of surprise, inwardly alarmed at the subtle show of strength, instead mumbling a quiet word of thanks and composing yourself. </p><p>The doctor followed Edward’s lead, continuing his conversation with ease, seemingly ignorant of his nephew’s bizarre and foul mood. His wife, Esme, had taken to arranging donation efforts to send overseas, to the widows of departed soldiers and their children. He seemed to speak of this with great pride, fondness crossing his expression as he spoke of her. <br/><br/>The sight warmed your heart, and you smiled into your lap, carefully beginning to pick at your food. You examined the pastry crust with a critical eye, carefully scraping the edge with your fork. It was well-cooked, perhaps slightly overdone, but--</p><p>“You have a lovely home.”</p><p>Edward’s soft words nearly made you drop your instrument, back going rigid as his voice sounded in your ear. Carefully laying it down, you tilted your face in his direction. “Thank you,” you replied, surprised to find his eyes on yours again. “Have you finished unpacking yet?” </p><p>Edward’s tactile fingers held his wine-glass with precarious confidence, poised to snap the stem if he exerted enough force. “I have,” his voice was cool, measured, but absent of the earlier hostility. “My uncle thinks we’ll remain here for a few weeks,” he took great pains not to display his displeasure, “at least until your mother is in more stable condition.” <br/><br/>The mention of your mother seemed to prompt some silence around the table, with the doctor seeming to communicate something to Edward with a quick glance-- and prodding your father with another question about his days abroad. </p><p>“There’s little excitement here in the countryside,” you lifted your fork again, finally beginning to sample your work, content with the appearance, “the city is a little ways down the road, but I imagine it's much more suited to your taste,” emboldened by his sudden show of civility, you pressed on, “I could show you the next time I head to the market?”</p><p>Edward was content to make idle conversation with you, but felt that creep of irritation return as he scanned your father’s thoughts. </p><p>The man had not spoken aloud his intentions of matchmaking, but his thought and deed made it abundantly clear. His mind was abuzz with plans to set the two of you up, and perhaps even sending you back to America as Edward’s bride. </p><p>Before he could much contain himself, or dilute the anger poisoning his judgement at yet <em> another </em> person trying to make that decision <em> for </em>him-- you made your timid offer. </p><p>The words formed on his tongue to politely accept, some fresh air would do him well-- your father’s loud and intrusive thoughts resurfaced. Anger roiling in his gut, he didn’t school his tone and a barbed <b>‘no’</b> emerged before he could help it. </p><p>You were stunned into silence at the swift reprisal, cheeks flushing with red as embarrassment clawed at you. <em> What had you done to deserve his anger? </em></p><p>Edward felt everyone at the table’s stinging disapproval, and the brief snap cooled his temper. “No, <em> thank you,” </em> he repeated quietly, glancing in your direction and trying to stomach the feeling of shame. “I wouldn’t trouble you with waiting on my account,” the excuse was weak, and it paled in comparison to the tone he’d taken previously. </p><p>You mumbled some word of excuse, taking your plate and another for your mother, before quickly leaving the dining room. </p><p>Carlisle’s look of disappointment was resounding enough that Edward didn’t have to read his thoughts to comprehend it. <em> You’re going to fix this.  </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Refrigeration technology was not commonplace, so canning or otherwise preserving produce was the widely accepted method of prolonging their use. This, in combination with tight rations on meat and bread during wartime limited options and portions. One fun fact I discovered while researching is that there was a nationwide shortage on onions in Britain during the second World War, so much so that they would be offered as prizes for lotteries!</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Rolling Thunder</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In an effort to mend the damage caused, Edward offers an apology.</p>
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  <span>You knocked softly on your mother’s door, precariously balancing the two plates. </span>
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  <span>Her voice was barely audible, a murmured command to let yourself in. </span>
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  <span>You twisted the handle, and took in the room. Your mother’s accommodations were designed to keep her comfortable and happy while she was confined to bed rest, but lingering in this room made you feel ill. Every centimeter was a reminder of her condition and pains, dimmed electric lights casting the room in a soft yellow shade, stretching long and dark shadows along the fading wallpaper. </span>
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  <span>Confined in a fortress of blankets and cushions, your mother looked almost doll-like, a faint sweat broken across her brow. “You’ve brought me dinner?” She shifted slightly, before relaxing against the cushions again. “I thought you would be downstairs with the Cullens,” she mused, accepting the offered plate, and gesturing to the seat beside her bed. </span>
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  <span>Your expression gave you away in an instant, taking the moment to quietly close the door before seating yourself at her side. Lifting your own plate, you set about finally eating-- allowing your posture to relax. “Father is with them,” you mumbled, digging into the pie-crust with the side of your fork, “I’m sure they’re plenty entertained.” </span>
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  <span>She lifted a brow, softly clicking her tongue at your dismissive attitude. “The doctor is not to your liking?” She lifted the fork to her mouth with no shortage of effort, resolved to still eat on her own. </span>
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  <span>“His nephew,” you replied, content to speak your mind within the privacy of these walls. “I offered to show him to the city, and he refused me in no uncertain terms,” you glanced up, removing the edge in your voice, “I took umbrage with his tone-- and took my leave.” </span>
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  <span>“And you told him this?” She gestured towards her water glass on the nightstand, offering a pleased smile as you placed it into her hand. </span>
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  <span>“I did not,” you replied, “I chose not to rebuke him, and came here.” </span>
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  <span>She returned the glass to your awaiting hand when it was nearly drained, her lips pursed in thought. “I commend your willpower.” </span>
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  <span>“But?” You prompted, knowingly. </span>
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  <span>“You don’t think you’ve drawn a premature conclusion?” </span>
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  <span>A soft knock at the door brought the conversation to a halt. </span>
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  <span>Your mother lifted a brow, laying her empty plate on the bedside table.  “Yes?” </span>
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  <span>“Mrs. Abberly, may I come in?” Edward Cullen’s voice carried through the wooden door with striking clarity. </span>
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    <span>Think about it. </span>
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  <span>The words formed on her lips, giving you a meaningful look before turning to the door. “At your leisure, Mr. Cullen!” </span>
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  <span>The door opened, and Edward lingered in the doorway, eyes drifting to you before returning to your mother. “My uncle sent me to inquire about your level of pain,” he spoke, “and if you are in need of further remedy for the evening.”</span>
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  <span>While he did not outwardly acknowledge you, Edward’s focus was drawn to the raging torrent of your thoughts, pulsing like a stream against a dam. Embarrassment cloaked in anger, turning over your mother’s words in your mind-- and deciding whether or not to abandon your pride. </span>
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  <span>“You can tell the doctor I’m feeling positively chipper,” your mother replied, sparing a small smile at his expense, “and thank him for his attention.” </span>
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  <span>Edward gave a nod of acknowledgement, returning her smile, before turning to you. “Miss Abberly, I believe I owe you a word of apology. Can I speak to you in the hall?” </span>
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  <span>You could feel your mother’s burning gaze on the side of your face, and without the excuse of her poor health, you had no reason to refuse. Carefully brushing off your skirt, you rose from your seat, pressing a kiss to your mother’s cheek before joining Edward in the hallway. </span>
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  <span>Careful to keep the door open to avoid the implication of impropriety, Edward nonetheless lowered his voice to grant the two of you some privacy, stepping just out of view. “My tone was unwarranted,” he offered, “you’ve been nothing but a gracious host, and I was out of turn.” Pausing, he carefully selected his words. “I hope you’ll accept my apology, and my sincere thanks for this evening’s meal.” </span>
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  <span>He seemed… sincere, but it didn’t remove your suspicion. </span>
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    <span>With such provocation, how could he not respond?</span>
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  <span> Anger continued to gnaw at you, thoughts twisting his apology to see how it flexed against the villainy you’d conjured in your mind. “Yes, well, your uncle’s care for my mother is invaluable, and I appreciate your presence here.” </span>
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  <span>The subtext of your words was clear. Edward could not begrudge you some stubbornness, and he had to restrain a small smile as he sifted through the sharp remarks your mind conjured. Your pose was well-crafted, and on a transcript, you’d been nothing but exceptionally polite. Your wit was sharper still, but held by the tight vice of expectation. It was the small relief, however, that convinced him not to forgo the effort entirely. Some part of this, however loathe you were to admit it, did provide comfort.</span>
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  <span>“I admit, my assistance in his work is often unnecessary,” he attempted a humorous tone, “much of my time here will be spent drowning in my studies, bored to tears.” He tried to steady his nerves, reassuring himself that if nothing else-- Carlisle would appreciate his effort at forging a peace. “I would appreciate your fine company, if you find opportunity.” </span>
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  <span>“But not at the market?” Your retort slipped out before you’d even realized, flush crawling up your neck as you registered your discourtesy. </span>
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  <span>Edward, despite himself, allowed a small chuckle to escape. “My temperament had nothing to do with your kind invitation,” deciding to divulge some semblance of the truth, he continued, “my uncle likes to say that I find a foul mood first, and an excuse for it thereafter.” He offered an open hand, a tenuous gesture of truce. “If a trip to the market would prove my intention, I’d be glad to make it.” </span>
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  <span>A small part of you wanted to hold onto your anger, continue to bicker-- but his charms were frustratingly effective. “Fine,” you slipped your hand into his, presenting your knuckles. </span>
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  <span>Edward laid a feather-light kiss on the ridge of your knuckles, ducking his head in acknowledgement. “Goodnight, Miss Abberly.” He started down the corridor, towards the awaiting guest room. </span>
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  <span>A smaller part of you swooned. </span>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading! &lt;3</p>
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